Wide Open
by Kymba
Summary: A snapshot of the life Cameron left behind and the doorway into the next one. Please R&R this will let me know whether this first fanfic is worth continuing. Rated M for hopefully upcoming smut.
1. Chapter 1

OUTLINE

Cut to 4 years earlier.

Allison walks into their apartment after her Gross Anatomy class and not turning around, kicks the door behind her closed – her arms are full of books and she has no time for everyday niceties like turning a knob. After throwing her lap and her books on the desk, she untangles her purse and scarf from her neck and shoulders and calls for him.

"Brian?"

"Brrriiiiiiiian…."

She takes a moment to roll her head on her neck and take a deep breath; even seven weeks into the semester she still can't shake the queasiness she always feels after spending 3 hours in the cadaver lab. She sighs and walks down the hall, rubbing the back of her neck when she sees him, seated at their desk. She brushes her shoulder on the doorframe as she comes in.

"Bri-"

She stop short, stunned for a microsecond when she finds him unconscious in their spare bedroom (office) desk chair, his head tipped to the side and blood dripping out of his nose. She takes two long strides and slides to her knees next to him, immediately feeling for a pulse and pupil reaction. She doesn't sob or scream; this has happened before. Leukemia makes sure it happens again and again. But they don't happen nearly as often as they used to.

o O o O o O o O o O o O o O o O o O o O o O

Cut to 3 years earlier.

Two months before their wedding, and a mere six weeks before their graduation from medical school, the blood tests come back from the lab. The cancer is back; Brian is no longer in remission. They spend long nights talking, debating, crying over the future – should they postpone the wedding? Brian thinks it's the logical thing to do, but Allison is adamant. Nothing has changed for her, she wants to continue. They decide to ahead with the ceremony, but no honeymoon: they'll come straight back to Princeton for her to start her immunology residency, and Brian will put off his cardiology residency for 6 months to undergo yet another course of chemo at Princeton Plainsboro. He's had the same oncologist there for the past 4 years, all through medical school, and he trusts him. Wilson is a good guy, and he 's always gentle with Allison – Brian appreciates that.

o O o O o O o O o O o O o O o O o O o O o O

It is Fourth of July weekend, and Allison and Brian are home in Chicago. It's almost midnight on Friday night, and they are exhausted but for different reasons. Allison has been running around for last minute fittings and flower arrangements and catering meetings – nothing she wants to be doing. Brian is exhausted from the rigorous chemo and radiation therapy, and the effort of keeping up the façade of the happy groom. Nobody, including their families, knows the truth. They sit on the end of the dock at Allison's parents' house on the lake – the wedding will be here tomorrow at four - with cold beers and their feet in the water, looking at the moon. Neither says anything; the loons a quarter mile away on the lake provide the dialogue and soundtrack to their thoughts.

The day has been stiflingly humid and all the wedding guests fan themselves, foreheads shiny with sweat as they look on. The afternoon breeze is picking up the coolness of the lake and broadcasting it through the reception tent; Allison's hair moves across her bare shoulders as Brian cranes his neck to kiss her carotid artery as they dance their first dance as husband and wife. She allows herself a moment of sentimentality on this day of all days, and buries her face in his jacket. The placement of his kiss is intentional. The guests all fade away and Allison feels completely alone with Brian. The dance will be over too soon, and they both know it. He whispers in her ear a request to sing to him; he loves the sound of her voice. He holds her shoulders as they shake; she takes a tentative breath and begins, her small voice cracking.

_I know I dreamed you a sin and a lie_

_I have my freedom but I don't have much time_

_Faith has been broken, tears must be cried_

_Lets do some living after we die_

_Wild horses couldn't drag me away_

_Wild, wild horses, well ride them some day_

o O o O o O o O o O o O o O o O o O o O o O

**Need a paragraph about Allison starting her residency and Brian's galloping illness**

The incessant hissing of Brian's CPAP line nearly puts Allison into a catatonic stupor; she feels like she's been here in the ICU of the Hospice ward for years. Much longer than the reality of two and a half weeks. As Brian's blood count got worse and worse and his pain level kept rising, Allison decided to take a leave of absence from her residency to be with him. And so she has, through all of it: the endless courses of chemo, soul destroying radiation, interrogation from her family and accusations from his, the downward spiral. What a ride.

The ICU nurse comes in for a quick vitals check and adjusts his morphine line. She looks at Allison sideways and asks how she's been. "Mostly comfortable, but I think there's a respiratory issue brewing – he's been coughing pretty strenuously and he said his back hurt." The nurse cocks her head to the side and replies, "Yeah, that's a hospital grade cold there. I'll have the attending stop by and look him over." Allison opened her mouth with "…but what if…" The nurse said kindly, "Of course. I'll widen the lock on his morphine and hand over the button to you." After weeks of seeing Allison on the night shift, she knew not only how bright Allison was but also how much she cared about Brian. The term 'visiting hours' didn't apply to people like her.

Allison is sitting up in her chair with her head on Brian's bed and her folded arms as a sad excuse for a pillow. It had been a rough night, what with his wracking cough making his pain all the worse. Allison didn't want to be any further away than she had to be in case he needed a push. But the sun was pouring through the open blinds directly onto her face, and there was no hiding from the morning. Chalking it up to her only partially conscious state, she didn't hear the man standing behind her in the doorway observing the scene.

House stood behind her, silently watching her wake. He noticed the first thing she looked for when she opened her eyes was him. Finding him asleep, she allowed her senses to widen across the room and became aware of the presence in the room. Turning she took him all in in one look, and then returned her attention to Brian. The rubber tip on his cane the rubber soles of his Nikes squeaked on the tile as he approached her; Allison winced at the sound knowing what a price sleep came at for Brian.

"The cold's the least of his problems. But it'll be his last."

Hearing it out loud made her chest tighten, but she nodded her head a fraction without facing him.

"I heard you're in residency over at Trenton General….why aren't you there?" House asked.

"Are you serious? Are you blind?" Allison spat.

"But you knew this was coming when you married him. I see he went out of remission before the wedding."

"Yeah, I knew. Doesn't mean I'd want to be anywhere else."

House nodded silently, although she didn't see it because she'd already turned her back to him. At least she was honest, he had to give her that.

"There's nothing I can do for his cold; his white count couldn't fight off a feather duster. But I'll authorize wide open for his morphine, and it won't matter. He won't have to fight."

Allison turned around, her eyes red and welling and looked up at him. He stared back at her with his steely blue eyes and found understanding in her face.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I'll be here."

o O o O o O o O o O o O o O o O o O o O o O

Late that night, long after the midnight shift change for the nurses, Brian rouses enough to open his eyes, but not enough to focus them. Doesn't matter. He knows she is there. She's been there all day, helping him through the coughing spells and giving him his meds.

"Ally….c'mere."

She shucks off her shoes and slides up in the bed next to him, careful not to jostle his IV lines.

Outside the door, House listens to their conversation. He knows there is nothing he can do for this patient, and this is usually his cue to leave. But something about this patient and this woman keep him rooted in his place; he is lost in a flood of memories from his own recent hospitalization and the woman who kept vigil by his side. He never remembers feeling the loyalty, the love that this woman, Allison Cameron wears like a suit of clothes. He wonders why she would ever commit herself to him, knowing what was coming. He wonders what kind of doctor she'll be.

Brian's breathing is shallowing out; Allison takes a quick look at the monitors to confirm the tank his vitals are taking. She slides her arm under his neck and cradles his head to her chest, deeply breathing in his hair and mentally separating it from the smell of hospital sheets and Ringers.

"Sing to me. Our song." Brian breathes.

Allison presses her lips into his forehead, and squeezes her eyes shut. She knows what he wants to hear. She's just not sure she can find her voice past the fact that her heart is in her throat. She kisses him once more to cover the tears that fall on his face.

"Sure. Go ahead and close your eyes." He complies, and as he does this she picks up his morphine line and opens the lock all the way.

_I watched you suffer a dull aching pain_

_Now you decided to show me the same_

_No sweeping exits or offstage lines_

_Could make me feel bitter or treat you unkind_

_Wild horses couldn't drag me away_

_Wild, wild horses, couldn't drag me away_

House listened, head lowered. Her voice pulled at somewhere deep inside his chest, rising up in his throat where it was hard to swallow back. Her voice wavered a bit, but her tone stayed true and she finished the last line. House heard the sheets whisper against each other as she slid out of bed, but didn't hear her feet touch the floor. Brian's monitors started sounding their brachycardia alarms. Allison walks to the door; House catches her arm on the threshold and looks at her questioningly. She waits a heartbeat, then finally raises her bloodshot eyes to his with a pained stare. "Just because I made it happen doesn't mean I can stand by and watch.". She raises her arm, House's hand still wrapped around her wrist and opens her hand to show him the plastic heplock from his morphine line. House swallows hard, nods.

She walks down the hallway, never looking back. House watches her the whole way, standing aside as the nurses come in to turn off the alarms. As the nurses call him in to declare time of death, he can feel the draft of fresh air from 50 feet away as Allison opens the double doors to the cold January night.

The next day, House finds a note in his inbox. From her, Allison. It simply reads, "Thanks for giving wide open. – Allison Cameron" He makes a mental note never to use her given name.


	2. Chapter 2

Allison stood in front of her closet, one hip popped to the side and a thoughtful expression on her face. Having just gotten out of the shower, her hair hung like wet black ribbons down her back but she was warm despite the heat being out in the old building. One of the few indulgences she allowed herself was this amazing Turkish cotton bathrobe she'd bought for herself from the Four Seasons in NYC. She wears it after every shower, but it's still pristine white even after three years.

New York. That trip seemed like a lifetime ago. Her honeymoon. Brian had insisted on at least a couple of nights away, even though she was scheduled to report at Mayo for her Immunology residency the following week. At the time she thought it was frivolous, a waste of time. Now she's glad to have had the time she had, and would sell her soul for more.

As her eyes rove over her wardrobe, taking in her various suits and other professional pieces her eyes settle over the furthest recessed corner of her closet. A garment bag hangs there, one that hasn't been opened for a long time. She avoids it mostly; even though she's moved it a couple of times in the last three years she forces herself not to think about it. She doesn't really have any reason to inventory her closet like this because she's in scrubs day in and day out at Mayo. But Allison has always been that girl that lays out her clothes the night before, especially for important events like this interview tomorrow. She shuffles forward a couple of steps, leaving the warm glow of her bedroom into the dark of her walk in closet to finger the zipper on his garment bag, hesitating a few seconds. She knows she shouldn't do this to herself; it'll wreck the rest of the night and put her on her knees. But she opens it anyway, with one long pull. His suit from the wedding. Amazingly, she can still smell him, even after all these years. He washes over like a wave, gentle and lapping, whispering to her and reminding her of their life. His death.

She was right – she shouldn't have opened that bag. She spends the rest of the night in the closet lost in her head, in her memories and doesn't wake until 2 in the morning.

The next morning she pulls out her old standby black suit, the one from her med school graduation ceremony. What it lacks in current fashion it makes up for in fit: skims in all the right places and hugs in others. Her mother had bought it for her. She always relies on her mother for these kinds of things; Allison really has no head for fashion and doesn't take that much of an interest. She debates whether to put her hair up or not but decides against it – she still has a bit of a headache from crying all last night, and feels it still in the morning like a hangover. Make up is never a part of the routine, other than a bit of lip gloss. Again, not really that interested.

She moves around her apartment, sipping her last cup of coffee while re-checking her mapquest directions and all the other details. She called PPTH yesterday to confirm her interview, and was shocked when James Wilson called her back. He was an oncologist, what was he doing calendaring for Diagnostic fellowships? When she brought up their previous acquaintance, she was _not_ shocked that he remembered her and Brian. He was that kind of guy, and had called personally after Brian to offer condolences. She remembers him fondly, and gives a passing thought wondering if she'd work that much with him. She hopes that his call back indicates he'll sit in on her interview for the fellowship. She remembers Greg House all too well. Not that they shared that much time together; he just happened to pull attending rotation through Hospice ICU the night Brian died. But Allison remembers the conversation like yesterday, and his eyes that saw straight through her. She felt transparent under his gaze, and oddly comforted. She's spent her whole life being told she's pretty, beautiful even – hence no make up to draw any more attention to herself – but she remembers the way he looked at her, like he saw all of her, inside and out. Later she chalked it up to tiredness, spending so much time in the ICU that she had such a jolting reaction to meeting him. But I'll see soon enough, she thinks as she locks the door behind her.

Allison walks through the glass door denoting Department of Diagnostics quietly, only to see an empty conference room. As she takes a couple of tentative steps inside, she catches movement out of the corner of her eye – the office, where two men are seated – one behind a desk with his sneaker-clad feet propped on the credenza, and the other is obviously Wilson on the opposite side. They are clearly caught up in some kind of heated discussion, and she hesitates before knocking on the adjoining door. Besides, it gives her a few seconds to observe them unnoticed. She's always been a bit of a snoop. Wilson says something accompanied by a flamboyant hand gesture, and House tips his head back and laughs. Honest, open chested belly laughs. It is the kind of laughter that is infectious, just being within earshot. Allison wonders for a minute if this could be a portent to the type of working environment she'd have under House. She feels a small smile tickle the corners of her mouth, and she raises her hand to knock on the door when House sees her and whips on his mask, his eyes razing her. Wilson turns around questioningly, and when he sees her he jumps up to open the door for her. House's eyes never move from her, taking in her clothes, her hair, her stride – all in one look. Allison hears Wilson make a small noise of greeting, and turns to introduce House.

"I remember you". House states bluntly.

"Likewise." Allison hasn't dropped her eyes yet; for some odd reason this feels like a 4th grade staring contest.

Wilson looks at House, surprised. Before he can open his mouth to voice the question, House speaks first.

"I was Florence Nightingale's husband's attending in the Hospice a few years back."

Wilson flinches at his friend's complete lack of tack, and looks over at Allison with a look of apology. It is one he has perfected.

Allison's eyes widen for a nanosecond – something not lost on House – and composes her expression like she would playing poker, which is what this feels like. Can't give anything away.

"So much for sacred ground. I take it nothing is verboten?"

House tilts his chin down a hair, looking at her from under his eyebrows. "That is correct. My rules."

Wilson jumps in, trying to diffuse the heat in the room by asking her how she's been, what was Mayo like . Allison listens intently, but is constantly aware of House's eyes on her, calculating her every word, gesture, expression. It's an odd mix of clinical and something else…she can't quite put her finger on. Wilson starts talking, the standard canned descriptions of the fellowship and her role, boilerplate interview questions, blah blah. As she responds to each in kind, she's constantly aware of his eyes on her, gauging her reactions even though she's not facing him.

As the interview wraps up and Allison is gathering her bag and standing, she's a bit taken aback but not at all surprised when Wilson leans in for a one-armed hug. She closes her eyes for a moment, remembering his smell and finding it comforting. She opens her eyes before Wilson releases her to look over at House, and sees his stare has turned into something akin to a death ray. She takes a half step back, a bit embarrassed. A strained few seconds pass silently under his look before she takes a step forward and offers her hand over the desk. His gaze never breaks with hers as he drops his feet for the first time and stands up, forcing her to look up at him. Because even a couple of feet away, he towers above her.

"Thank you for your time." Allison says under her breath.

When House takes her small hand in his much larger one, still scrutinizing her, it hits her what his look is. Heat. Shot through with it.

She feels a little dizzy, but it passes and she pulls her hand away. It's not anything she's felt since Brian died, and the jolt she feels in her chest makes it way down through her abdomen, all the way to pool at the bottom of her pelvis. And then tightens. Embarrassed by the blush rising up from her collar into her cheeks, she turns to leave before he notices. She's not quite through the glass partition when his low voice rumbles from behind her.

"I expect a full pot of coffee by the time I get in tomorrow morning. Don't be late."

She stops mid-stride and stiffens. As she turns, initially planning to respond to his arrogance that he would expect her, a Mayo resident to serve coffee like a waitress, when his eyes catch hers again and his full meaning settles around her. She can see a smirk starting around the corners of his mouth.

"Lucky for you I make great coffee. See you in the morning."

Before she makes it through the door, she hears him through his smirk – "Can't wait to see what else you're great at."


End file.
